


Kiss

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, real person - Freeform, real person fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 03:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16077497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: The definition of the word "kiss" depends upon the person. (Female Reader x Male TV Actor of your choosing)





	Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This was difficult to categorize, so I placed it in "Original Work". This is what I would call "Pseudo-Real Person Fic", since you can imagine any Male TV Actor alongside yourself in the lead roles (he is never named), so there is no true "real person" involved, though the TV show in question is vaguely reminiscent of SPN (you'll see what I mean!). As I put it in the original post at my blog: "Attempting to challenge myself with three things I don’t go for as a general rule (smuttery, real person inserts, second person perspective) for 2018 Smut Appreciation Day".

The first time he kissed you was when he showed up the night before you left, half-drunk, half-crying.

It hadn’t broken in the news yet, but the divorce papers had finally been signed. They’d been separated for almost two years, not that anyone knew, certainly no one outside their inner circle. He’d been to your hotel room, running lines as an excuse - you were barely above an extra, a whopping two sentences on page twenty, another four sentences on page forty-five, and not even to his character - and you knew his pattern as well as you’d come to know most of his lines.

He’d talk little about her, never a sparkle in his eye when she came up, contrary to the picture painted by all their social media accounts, so you’d figured out pretty quick what was going on. They were finished, done, and they’d  _been_ done, probably closer to the start than he’d want to admit; than she’d  _ever_ admit.

But he’d never once made a move on you, never an up-and-down appraisal, never a wink, never a  _look_ , treated everyone on set exactly the same. He was lonely, said as much, missed being able to hang out at a bar without getting surrounded by people expecting him to be “on”, take the pictures, smile the smile, fake the laughs, pretend to be one of his characters long enough to spout out a signature line. He missed being able to be friends with a woman without the tabloids and the fans - god, the  _fans_ \- and his wife making something of it. You were the first new friend he’d made in easily a decade, he’d said, someone who’d actually asked about  _him_ , not the job, the wife, not anything but him.

_“That day when I ended up at the same table as you at lunch?”_

_He had nodded. “You just came up and sat down. I was sitting with the A.D., and then you just—”_

_“It was crowded, there was an empty seat, I was in a hurry. I had twenty minutes before I had to be in hair and make-up.”_

_“It was… nice. You not being all…” He’d trailed off, then crossed his eyes, made a face, erratic gestures with his hands, spelling out whack-a-doo without words._

_You’d snickered, then said, “You’re people, man. Same as the guy who served us lunch. You’re just closer to the spotlight.”_

_“Not everybody thinks like that.”_

_“All I asked was if you wanted the extra taco I’d grabbed.”_

_“Yeah. I know,” he’d replied with a shrug._

He was charming, he was easy on the eyes, he was famous - had been for the entirety of his adult life - and he was genuinely surprised at that, how you didn’t act starstruck, and was particularly impressed with how you’d called him on it when he’d absentmindedly brushed the make-up artist’s hand away, grumpy during a difficult scene.

_“I wasn’t too bitchy, though, was I?”_

_He’d laughed, the real one. “No. You were just right. That’s when I knew for sure we’d be friends.”_

Fast friends, just took a few conversations. It wasn’t meant to be a long friendship - you were only there a short time, and now you were done, leaving the next morning, time to scour the trades for the next scale pay, find a new waitressing job since the restaurant wouldn’t give you time off, and you’d quit. So when your phone vibrated at ten til midnight, the text asking if he could stop by when you knew he had an early call time, you felt your eyebrows shoot up. When the knocks started before you’d even set the phone down, you felt yourself frown.

“What’s wrong?” you asked immediately, taking in his red-rimmed eyes and the six pack that was four short.

He walked in without a word, straight to the tiny kitchen area, plunking what was was left of the beer onto the counter. He fished his phone from his back pocket, opened up his email, handed it to you as his answer. He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, then arms crossed, eyes closed, head tilted back, unmoved as you read.

“So she finally signed. I thought you’d be… maybe not happy, but relieved… I mean, not like  _this_.”

He didn’t open his eyes when he responded. “I think I’m  _this_ because I’m feeling  _too_ relieved. I shouldn’t be.”

“Well… what do you think you should be?”

Eyes opening, head raising, he was looking at you oddly, as if it was clear. “I should be thinking about the good times, what made me love her… maybe about the wedding, or about… about… I should be missing her.”

“But?”

The tears reappeared. “I think I stopped missing her a long time ago.”

He took off his baseball cap, ran a hand through his hair, and when he returned it to his head, he put it on backwards, took two long, determined strides in your direction, but then stopped, glanced around the room, anywhere but at you. He seemed utterly helpless. So you did what you’d do for any friend who was hurting.

You pulled him into a hug.

“Jesus, I miss being held,” he admitted, voice cracking.

“I’m so sorry,” you replied, squeezing him tighter.

His arms dropped, wrapping around your torso so he could do the same, and the two of you stood there in silence, your hands rubbing his back, not knowing what to do to soothe him. He began rubbing your back in return, brought you in even closer, no space left between your bodies, almost crushing, really, but you could both breathe. And it was heavy now, not just the breathing, but the mood in the room, heads turned in, his in your shoulder, yours in his neck, one of his hands on your waist, squeezing and releasing, the other pressing in slightly as it glided up and down your ribs, one of your hands now gently stroking his neck, the other nudging the cap away so your fingertips were in his hair. And without thinking, you raised up on your toes, whispered in his ear.

“Let me kiss you.”

A blink-and-you’d-miss-it pause in his touches - then suddenly, he whipped the two of you around, backed you up til you were pressed against the wall, releasing you, planting his hands on either side of your face, shaking his head.

“No. I wanna kiss  _you_.”

You leaned in, but he didn’t reciprocate. He began to drop then, and slowly, his face against your chest, lowering, between your breasts, lower, over your belly, hands trailing down your sides, stopping only when he was on his knees, and his fingers began curling under the waistband of the pajama pants you wore, pulling them down at an excruciating pace, then when they fell, his hands were like a vice around your hips, not letting your legs part, as he nuzzled your pussy through the thin cotton briefs.

_Fuck, this is actually happening._

One hand drifted, just so he could hook a thumb, pull the fabric aside, no hesitation, his tongue searching, pushing, his lips sucking, pulling. It wasn’t rough but it wasn’t gentle, it was  _desperate_ and  _hungry_ , and you kept your eyes on the ceiling, palms flat against the wall and, crazy as it sounded, tried to imagine it wasn’t him. If it was  _him_ , then it was  _real_ , and it couldn’t be real. Not with your lives, not as they were.

It didn’t take long, not with the lazy passes and sharp flicks of his tongue on your throbbing clit, before you were gasping for air as your belly clenched and you came. He stayed there, pressing wet lips into your hot skin while he waited for you to calm, then re-adjusted your clothing, stood, his hands now holding your own, fingers threading, brought his forehead to the wall, letting his head rest next to yours. It was silent for several minutes, neither of you moving a muscle. Then you couldn’t stand it anymore, and spoke.

“What will you do?”

“I’ll finish the season. Then I’ll go back to what’s left of home.”

“I go home tomorrow morning. My flight’s early.”

“Yeah. I’ve, uh… I’ve got an early call.”

“I know.”

“Might call in sick, play hooky.”

You turned your head slightly, but only barely caught his eye, saying, “No. You won’t.”

He forced a small chuckle. “No. I won’t.” He sighed then, gave your hands a squeeze, didn’t meet your eye again, just picked up his phone and let himself out.

You didn’t bother to throw away the forgotten beer before you left for the airport.

Thanks to the divorce, for the first time in years he was able to pick up work on a small movie when the show was on hiatus, the only reason you knew being that a casting agent left three voicemails over the course of your six-hour shift. Summer had arrived and the college kids were home, so there were part-time bartending and serving gigs a plenty. Good thing, too - nothing had come from auditioning. The last thing you’d filmed was for the show, the year prior, and so the hesitation of his involvement didn’t linger long. **  
**

It was a small role, just three or four scenes, one of which would be filmed alone - your character’s side of a phone conversation - and one with just the lead male, playing his sister. He’d requested you specifically, the agent said. Thought you’d be perfect. They didn’t even need an audition, he’d spoke so highly. Shouldn’t take more than a week or so. All expenses paid, everything was already arranged, they could send the pages immediately, say the word, all that was needed was a  _Yes_.

The moment he spotted you, he excused himself from a conversation and made a beeline, toothpaste-commercial-smile in check, enveloping you in a huge hug, but there was no awkwardness, no weirdness, not from either of you.

“Long time, no see,” you said with a laugh.

“I know! And hey,” he said, stepping back and looking at you somewhat seriously, “I’m glad you’re here. Really.”

“Me, too.”

An even brighter smile. “C'mon, lemme introduce you to everyone.”

He was the same, and yet a whole new person. It was startling, how happy he was, and you were happy for him. The alimony was no joke, he reported over beers that first night, but otherwise the ex hadn’t been problematic once her passive-aggressive Instagram and Twitter behavior waned over those initial few months. You mentioned it was good he hadn’t turned up in the tabloids, and he snickered.

“Nothing to tell. I’m the most boring person on the planet. It’s a relief, after all her— all the drama.”

You extended your beer. “To boring.”

He clinked. “Amen.”

The second time he kissed you was at the wrap party - he’d flown you back out for it, insistent, pleading almost, wanting a friend there. The gal who’d played his love interest in the movie had really been coming on to him, according to the frequent texting the two of you had started since your departure. And when he’d called to invite you, the latest news was that of the pièce de résistance, a masterful plan involving slipping him the tongue during kissing scenes.

_“Oh, now we’re getting to it. You just need a buffer from what’s-her-face.”_

_“You’re damn right.”_

The place where the party was held had closed for the event, though they’d roped-off the upstairs area, but it was easy to navigate, and they apparently hadn’t thought to lock the door to the roof.

“Thank you, god, I couldn’t take another minute!” he exclaimed as soon as the door shut.

“Get used to it, King of the Land of Netflix,” you replied, tacking on a bow.

He let out a touch of a snort. “It’s not a great movie. And they’re releasing it the same week as the premiere of what’s gotta be the forty-fifth Marvel series, did I tell you that?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No lie. It’ll tank, but who cares.” He took a sip of his whiskey, and noticed as you leaned on the concrete ledge, looking out over the city lights, that your hands were empty. “Shit, I shoulda grabbed you a drink before we came up here.”

“I don’t need a drink, I’ll steal yours if I get thirsty.”

“No need to steal.” He handed over his glass. “I am a generous king.”

You took a sip, then asked, “When does filming start for the show?”

He leaned next to you. “I got about month. Might go to the beach or something.”

“That sounds good.”

“Wanna come?”

You side-eyed him. “What?”

“Think about it,” he began, pushing himself upright and easing behind you, leaning in and running a hand down one of your arms til he reached  _your_ hand, taking it, lifting, gesturing across the horizon, his voice taking on a light sing-song cadence as he pitched his sale. “Blue as far as we could see. Ocean breeze.” He swayed a bit from side to side, his other hand now on your hip, making you sway with him. “Maybe a little music. Cocktails in coconuts.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” you commented dryly, picking up the glass with your free hand, then taking a giant swig of what watered-down whiskey was left, suddenly feeling tingles from head-to-toe as he kept up the swaying, his arms wrapping around your waist, bringing your arm along with, and after you set the glass back down, you laid your other arm atop his.

He lowered his head, his breath warm on your ear. “Are you seeing someone? Is that why you—-”

“I’m not seeing anyone.”

“So you… you don’t…”

He was a fantastic actor, better than anyone probably knew. He was borderline shy in real life, and all he ever played were these swaggering, manly, balls-to-the-wall types. There were touches of arrogance that would surface, perhaps, but that was part and parcel of his trade. Right then, he was anything but. Right  _then_ , he was nervous.

“We’re very different,” you whispered by way of explanation, and you felt him nod.

It was quiet for several moments. His arms released you, but his hands didn’t go far, moving down to your hips, resting there, though only briefly; you felt him gently gathering up your skirt in his fingers, and a breeze hit your knees, causing a shiver. Well. Adding to the shivers already present. And he asked you another question.

“Can I kiss you again?”

_All that was needed was a Yes._

“Yes.”

He was on his knees, your thong down around your ankles before you could blink, legs apart as far as the elastic would allow, one of his hands staying on your lower back, fist full of the bunched-up skirt, other hand pushing in-and-up on your ass, keeping both out of his way as he drug his warm tongue from your lips to your taint, repeating the action again and again, and you leaned over as far as you could onto the ledge, silently begging for him to continue, for him to deepen this kiss of his, and he didn’t disappoint, leisurely beginning to fuck you with his tongue.

Like last time, there was no fingering, no rubbing, no doing anything that couldn’t be done with his mouth, and for once you didn’t want it, didn’t  _need_ it, his rhythmic licking and sucking and nibbling providing all the sensation necessary to cause clenching in your core, the scraping of his five-o’-clock shadow against your skin mirroring the feel of the rough concrete under your palms; you were pressing into it fiercely, trying to keep yourself upright, keep yourself from arching back into his face.

A moan slipped past your lips as your legs began to shake, and a deep  _Mmmmmm_  hit the air, the vibration of his voice sending you over the edge, almost literally as you’d thrust yourself forward, chest smashing against the ledge, eyes wide as you looked down at the busy street below, cars zooming by, their forms blurry, the chatting and laughter of the people on the sidewalk muted in your ears, head dizzy as you felt him returning your underwear to their proper place, surprisingly soft hands gliding up the backs of your legs, a brief caress of your ass before he adjusted your skirt, smoothed it down.

You stood straight, and felt him just behind you, the only contact being what you knew to be his erection straining at his pants, a barely-there reminder of what effect this was having upon him, and as you reached behind, he grabbed your wrist.

“No,” he said gently.

“I can’t return the favor?”

“I’m not doing you a favor.”

“I want to… and I don’t want to be selfish.”

“ _I’m_  the one being selfish.”

You nodded your acceptance, then turned. “I’m going to go get cleaned up, then call a cab.”

“My driver can—-”

“You should get cleaned up, too,” you pointed out, lightly running a finger from the tip of his nose, down, over his lips, further, passing over his chin.

A sharp intake of breath, and his eyes closed.

They were still closed when you left.

It was only four months before a casting agent called again.

Your last role on the show had been minor, and had ultimately been cut from the final product, so it wasn’t too surprising that they were fine with bringing you back, though it  _was_ surprising that the part was a major one, name in the  _Guest Starring_  opening credits, and all. And it was going to be longer than their typical episode-a-week shooting schedule, a solid two, no doubt, said the agent. The characters were going back in time, all the way to when women in corsets and men in tights were the rage - the fittings alone were likely to take up the entirety of your first day.

You didn’t see him the first  _three_ days, excepting the table read, during which he made no eye contact. It was partially on purpose, making yourself scarce, but there was lots of downtime for anyone who wasn’t the lead, so you weren’t missed. Probably a bad idea, professionally, as all but a few of your scenes involved him, be it in a group or just the two of you, and running lines prior to the real deal would’ve been wise. You were playing a woman who was a toe over the line into being a villain, but one that was charmed by his character. Charmed, in part, by a kiss - which, of course, was the first one-on-one scene scheduled.

The front-end was uneventful, dialogue went fine, no real flubs to speak of, but then foreheads bumped. Chins scraped. Angles all wrong for the camera. Noses bent. Hands never finding the right resting place. Lips never truly meeting, only brushing by.

The director walked over, spoke in a lowered voice. “We’ve got some wiggle room today. Let’s try again after lunch,” he suggested, receiving nods from you both.

The wardrobe assistant approached with a robe, saying, “And let’s get you out of that skirt so you can actually relax!”

“Or you can just find a table somewhere, tip me over and lay me out, I’m  _dying_ to get off my feet,” you replied with a grin, referring to the stiff, awkward, curled-toe shoes.

You thought he’d walked away with the director, but apparently not, as his voice came from behind.

“I’ve got a bed in my trailer, you’re welcome to it while I’m grabbing something to eat.”

It was a casual tone, not unfriendly, but not friendly, either.

“That’d be great, thanks,” you replied.

“I’ll send one of the P.A.s to let you in, have them meet you in… what? How long you need?”

“We’ve gotten good at this - send ‘em to my neck of the woods in ten,” the assistant answered.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said, and then he was gone.

The corseted top of the costume that boosted your breasts to high heaven had modest sleeves, comfortable lining, was tailored to perfection, and had been - thankfully - made separate from the skirt, what seemed like a million hidden eye hooks making it appear to be a full dress. You had to admit you loved the thick stockings, it was fun rolling them up your thighs and attaching them to the fancy garters. What you  _didn’t_ love was the bathroom situation - you learned quickly that it was a disaster, fighting against them, dealing with all the un-fastening and re-fastening in order to get your underwear down, and so the knickers were nixed after the initial round. As it was, someone from wardrobe had to accompany you on pee breaks to lift the skirt and get you seated, which was pretty amusing, sending you both into giggles every time - you looked like a drunk Cinderella navigating her way onto the throne.

Blessedly relieved of the skirt for the time being, you’d only been in the trailer long enough to take off those horrid shoes and cinch the robe tighter before you laid down, when you whirled around at the sound of the door opening, followed quickly by the click of the lock, rapid footsteps headed your way. He was in his white tank, the blousy shirt and waistcoat of his costume in his hand, and he threw them to the side as he walked, where they missed a chair completely, but he didn’t break stride, halting only when he was right in front of you, jaw set, nostrils flaring, face flushed, breaths short and choppy. His eyes roamed your face, and he raised his hands as if to touch, only to let them fall to his sides.

“Who’d have thought we’d be so shitty at kissing?” you asked, and your tiny smile was reciprocated, though just for a moment.

“That what you want? To be kissed?”

“What do  _you_ want?’  
  
“I want  _you_ ,” he practically growled, snatching the ties of the robe, making quick work of the knot, jerking the fabric apart, eyes widening when he realized there’d be nothing standing in his way, and he bent slightly, gathering up the bottom of the robe before he pushed you down.

The third time he kissed you was there, on his bed, grunting as he gripped the backs of your thighs, lifting, pulling them apart, pinning them against the bed, keeping you spread wide, taking the time to study you carefully as he took to his knees, running his tongue in the creases where your thighs met your pussy before running it up your center, pausing to barely dip the tip into your slit before moving higher, on a mission, hunting for your clit.  

The room smelled of sex. You felt a wet spot growing beneath you, soaking the bedding, trailing down over your asshole, and he occasionally halted his nibbling to tilt his head, drag his tongue the entire length, lapping it away before diving back in, and when they weren’t clawing at the mattress, your hands were in his thick hair, grasping, tugging, but there was no need to urge him further, he was in so deep. He had a beard now, part of the shtick, and it tickled and scratched every time he moved his head back and forth, back and forth,  _back and forth_ , his tongue circling, batting at your engorged nub with the perfect amount of pressure, then with a coarseness, a  _fury_. His fingernails were making marks, you felt blood coming to the surface of your skin, wondered briefly how you’d explain when they were getting you dressed again, before deciding in the same moment you couldn’t have fucking cared less.

He moved his hands, wrapping his arms around your legs so his fingers were now gouging into your inner thighs, jerked you forward, knees over his shoulders, changing the angle, and you cried out as you came, it hit so fast you couldn’t prepare, couldn’t prepare  _him_ , but he didn’t miss a beat, slowing his pace long enough to let the spasms settle, just slightly before he was at it again, mouth wide open, taking as much of your flesh into his mouth as possible, that goddamn tongue exploring, twirling, dancing in and out of your cunt, and the room filled with the sounds of his sloppy smacking atop his moans, bested only by the breathless whines escaping your throat - but he was breathless, too, you could hear it when he stopped long enough to say one word:

“ _Again_.”

Your body responded to the command before your brain could even process it, pelvis bucking, legs leaving his shoulders, and you gripped behind your knees, holding them back, his hands moving to rest upon yours as he made you come again, this time with such a loud cry, you couldn’t imagine that anyone walking past the trailer wouldn’t have heard you. Both of you panting, he helped lower your legs, get your ass scooted back onto the bed, and then he collapsed beside you. And after a moment, he snuck one of his hands into one of yours, gave it a gentle squeeze.

You squeezed back. 

“Holy lord, did you eat lunch in a wind tunnel?”

You both fought snickers at the hairdresser’s comment, but she didn’t notice,  _tsk_ -ing under her breath as she went to town on his beard with a small comb and a few light passes of pomade.

“I washed my face - you’d be combing out bean sprouts or whatever the hell they’ve got me eating,” he teased. “You should be thanking me.”

“Thaaaaank you,” she said with a smile, then went on her way.

The make-up artist was coming at your mouth with a lipstick-laden brush, and you pulled away, saying, “We’ve got to do some kissing soon. I don’t mean to tell you your job, I just wasn’t wearing that much earlier when—-”

“You’re good,” the script supervisor cut in, walking over to stand beside you. “Little change of plans, guys. We’re gonna keep this kind’ve demure, make it suggestive, y’know? Lean in, get real close, hover there, but not actually touch lips, pick up with the lines that would’ve come after.”

“Ah. I take it someone above our pay grade got a sneak peak at the dailies?” he asked.

You must have had an odd expression on your face, because she gave your arm a few quick pats. “Don’t sweat it, hon. It’s probably because you two are friends, sometimes the chemistry just isn’t there. It’ll work out better this way anyhow, that whole unfulfilled desire thing, don’t you think?”

You both nodded.

“Great! I mean, hey - I think there’s plenty to say for coming close to a kiss and it never happening. Leaves room for more.” She shot you a wink before she turned to go, calling back over her shoulder as she walked away, “You know this show - nobody’s ever gone for real, never can tell when we’ll see you again!”

Lips glossed, lighting tweaked, director in chair, marks hit, clapboard snapped, and you stared into each other’s eyes.

“And -  _ACTION!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed. :)


End file.
